The Wedding Ring

I pawned my sick wife's wedding ring,To drink and make myself a beast.I got the most that it would bring,Of golden coins the very least.With stealth into her room I creptAnd stole it from her as she slept.

I do not think that she will know,As in its place I left a bandOf brass that has a brighter glowAnd gleamed upon her withered hand.I do not think that she can tellThe change - she does not see too well.

Pray God, she doesn't find me out.I'd rather far I would be dead.Yet yesterday she seemed to doubt,And looking at me long she said:"My finger must have shrunk, becauseMy ring seems bigger than it was."

She gazed at it so wistfully,And one big tear rolled down her cheek.Said she: "You'll bury it with me . . ."I was so moved I could not speak.Oh wretched me! How whisky canBring out the devil in a man!"

And yet I know she loves me still,As on the morn that we were wed;And darkly guess I also willBe doomed the day that she is dead.And yet I swear, before she's gone,I will retrieve her ring from pawn.

I'll get it though I have to steal,Then when to ease her bitter painThey give her sleep oh I will feelHer hand and slip it on again;Through tears her wasted face I'll see,And pray to God: "Oh pity me!"